Published May 15, 2015
A man woke up from dreams of flying to find the grey skies had finally, irrevocably and godlessly fallen; a dense, muggy, sick, slow-oozing fog squelched and squeezed at the roof tiles of the world, sprawling in a dazed deception, proof at last that over our heads there were no dreams. A sad, gut-burnt laugh of defeat bubbled to the man’s parched lips.
Yes, he knew it all along: above the clouds there were never angels. And there never would be. What is there to do? Really
This fudge of tainted protoplasm is a self-suppurating mess of blue bruises, black scars and monosyllabic internal shouts, he thought. If only there were a way to express this extra-gravitational mass pushing down on the shoulders of the soul. If only there were a mode of—not release, that wasn’t the right word—a mode of—not escape—just a mode. No, it was deeper than that.
He picked up the nearest object. It turned out to be a smashed-up guitar, welded forever into a fuzz of griminess. The man’s clawing, desperate hands moved of their own accord. And there, finally, in a frequency just underneath the scraping emptiness of finality, there it was. He called it a riff. And it begat more; and the clouds parted, and the sky was full of fire, motorcycles and alternating Sabbath riffery and Zep-esque 70s rock.
The man was glad he had woken that day, and vowed never to dream again.